You Think You Have Seen Heat?

Because it was so much hotter than typical reason could justify, rumours and speculation ran rife. It couldn’t just be the sun, we reasoned; something else, something more spiteful must have been involved.

Some said it was because of Cindy and Sheebah. Some said it was typical NRM. Some said the gods of the Nile don’t like the new bridge. They found it too showy, too derivative, copyish and cliche. “Now all those lights for who? Is it Christmas bridge? Just being so extra,” was, allegedly, the comment from one particularly offended lubaale.

Then there are those that say it was the equinox at play.

Mbu equinox. Africans already have enough problems without the perpetuation of barbaric beliefs in witchcraft and sorcery like equinoxes. Let’s be rational, scientific. Yes, we had an equinox but that was not the culprit.

And yes, the Nile demigods do feel the bridge is a fugly stick, but that is not the culprit.

In Kyebando, where the most popular rolex stands are found close to the wetlands, people get typhoid after being bitten by a mosquito. It doesn’t mean the mosquito gave them typhoid, does it?

What I’m saying is, equinox notwithstanding, the heat wave had another, more significant contributor: Global Climate Change. Your buveera, deforestation and support of the US and China economies which are so prolific at earth-destroying that they essentially make pollutants out of pollutants is what did it.

The heat is gone and it is raining now, probably as you read this. Maybe you are under the shade of a bus stop, sniggering at the oversimplification I just made of China’s ecological impact, muttering, “Bazanye, is so shallow! Must be a Makerere product!” and maybe you are a pretty lady with a very attractive eighthead.

If that is the case and a dikuula sidles up to you like he think he smoove and starts asking a Mr Google for your number, don’t panic. Google does has an astonishing amount of your personal data, but the query doesn’t work unless you say “OK google”. You’re safe. Secondly, do this.

The heat is gone, and it is raining now… Well, I say rain, but really it’s just mean little drizzles, about 20 drops that flutter down for like a quarter of an hour then vanish. Most of it evaporates before it hits the ground. Useless.

But this apparent change in the weather is no change at all, I am afraid to say. This is the same pattern as the heat wave. It’s the same GCC. The sequel to the franchise, the spinoff to the series. This is not showers of blessings, this is not a rain of mercy. Climate change rain is doomsday rain, slouching towards Bethlehem. We are using the waters of armageddon to fill our water tanks, letting the waters of the apocalypse flow down our taps.

Don’t get comfortable, Bwaise. The rain will increase to flooding. It is not yet too late to learn your lesson and leave. God has already forsaken your hood, who are you to stay?

I consulted a reputable meteorologist and can confidently say the city has eight years left (the confidence comes because the words “reputable meteorologist” contradict each other). Eight more years and Kampala will no longer be habitable.

Then I re-consulted, this time with a reputable urban sociologist and got slapped. That snap-out-of-it, get-a-grip-on-yourself slap we see on TV that we now believe is acceptable first aid treatment for crazy talk.

“Kampala is already uninhabitable,” I was told and now translate from Luyaye. “It is a shambles that daily adds more confusion to itself, piling disorder onto disarray. Compounding confusion to chaos on a constant basis.

“We don’t live in Kampala, we survive  it. We don’t live in Kampala, we just make it through Kampala. We don’t live in Kampala, we just manage not to get killed by it for another day.”

But eight years is a fair estimate to my future as the Communications Advisor of the Water Chief of Mutte Fiefdom, which is now a poor neighbourhood of Masaka, but which will rise to power and prominence with a regime so brutal it will make you daydream of oppression just to escape reality.

This is what will happen. The Water Chief, master of the only stream with clear water, will be a millennial, but his top adviser will be a generation X guy– possibly me. The chief will be weak-willed and pliable, charged with hubris, addicted to praise, easily manipulated by flattery, absolutely ignorant of his/her ignorance and therefore the perfect puppet for a Gen-X cynic who saw the Soviet Union, apartheid, Kony, Amin, Mobutu, and Moi, not to mention Puff Daddy, Suge Knight, Agent Smith and Doctor Robotnik… and has distilled every single lesson of power abuse in the twentieth century from all of these sources.

Museveni will, of course, still be president of Uganda. But due to the series of secessions, the economic collapse, the breakdown of communication when traditional social media is usurped by small pirate echo-chambres, all that will be left of Uganda will be a few square kilometres around the Hoima oil fields. It will be the most impoverished of all the destitute states around it because of how worthless petroleum will have become.
What do you want oil for? Cars? Cars don’t exist anymore. Neither do roads. Neither do destinations to drive to.

Now, some say that climate change is still reversible. I believe scientists. But…

Picture the three-car convoy of some high-level government official. A chap who was bullied as a child but learned as a teen that to kiss the right bums not only gives one security but also that the stench of a stronger person’s effluence can give one the courage to do some bullying of one’s own. So he drives everywhere in a Land Rover with two police trucks fully loaded with the kind of thug who doesn’t know which lives matter.

Picture the kind of convoy that assumes that if we can’t climb onto the pavements to give way because so much of Kampala doesn’t have pavements, we should climb our cars onto each other to make way for him.

Yes, the cars that make these convoys have full gear transmission systems. They can reverse.

But just because reversal is within their capacity doesn’t mean it is going to happen.  

Anyway, enough about me. How have you been?


Why We Wear These Clothes

Your shoes, hair, hat, boxer shorts if you have on low slung jeans while astride your boda, and the rest of your clothes in general always say something about you. Even the most robustly unfashionable among us, (that’s me) is aware of that.

Your apparel is in constant chatter with the crowd around you, collaborating in a joint statement about what, who and why the heck you are.

As innocent an act as draping yourself in fabric is all it takes, and off they go. They will be screaming slanders about you all day. You sit at your desk, naively thinking that by being quiet you are being silent, but no. As long as you are visible and clad, something is screeching wolokoso about you at everyone.

I am short sighted. Short Sighted but still perceptive. So I know that what I wear has some impression it makes. That’s why, at least once in a while, I do make an effort to curate the statement issued. I will probably to draft a release like, “Don’t be frightened. I am merely eccentric; that’s the harmless form of crazy.” with a plain blue button-down shirt and black khakis.

Most days however, I won’t try so hard or, honestly, at all, so the message sent will just basically be, “Leave me alone; go exercise your presumptuous, pretentious, faux-psychic, quack-sherlockian, hack-mentalist kamanyiiro on someone else. Don’t waste the misapprehension that you have the right to an opinion on me because I will not acknowledge it with anything but the most curt dismissal: basic jeans and a tee. Go to instagram and judge a Kardashian there. That will satisfy you better.”

You know, I keep it simple

I have the same general view on my choice of frames for my glasses. They were always thin, black and as unspectacular as possible (You see what I did there? I am showing off. And I’m not yet done) because I recently began to see things in a new light. You could say my eyes were opened. I had never envisioned this, but it appears I was being myopic, not taking the full scene into view.

Lately I have changed and now realise that some items of attire look good. So now I care a little, a relatively, but significant little, a minute but measurable karittro more about these things. Like, instead of just t shirts, now I wear nice t shirts. Some of them kind of fly, too. What can I say? I had taste all along.

This time I most def had a message. Link here

I am not going all host of NBS Catch Up with a K or The Oozy Vertical, nothing so flamboyant, but sometimes, maybe a modest little flourish here, a wink and a grin sparking out of an otherwise unremarkable ensemble. It gives me a mild dopamine kick.

Besides, I am told dressing better helps provide confidence. When you interact with people, confidence helps and clothing can provide that.

But I am not an introvert. I am a misanthrope. I don’t require confidence to interact with people, I require patience and dressing a certain way helps expedite certain interactions that would have otherwise been more tedious. Like the collars, jacket and tie combo that we learned during our hustling days is essential when you go to get your cheque.

If you are still youth and don’t know this yet, always go for your payment in business attire. Jacket, tie and/or high heels. It’s like walking in with thunder and lightning swirling around you, and a dragon barking that Rihanna song. You know the one.

I have two pairs of glasses now. Got both from House of Penda.

Here is an example of This House of Penda I am talking about

The ones in the collage below, are my Clark Kent pair. Black, conservative, serious.

I think they will be very effective in coming months when I am sitting across a desk, a pensive look darkening my face as I absently remove the glasses and twirl them in one hand by the stem, just for a moment, and then, emitting a “hmmmm” in a tone of mystery, a tone that leaves the listener wondering whether I hmmmmed in Luganda or English, lip-bite the tip of the stem for a second, before I slowly, with both hands, in a single, deliberate motion, as certain and yet as smooth as a Messi free kick, lift them back to the bridge of my nose, then lean backwards, temple my fingers together, and, just as the bead of sweat that has been forming on my victim’s temple begins to become too heavy to hold, utter the words, “Okay. We have a deal.”

I may even practice doing it in the voice of Cottonmouth from Luke Cage.

Check out HouseofPenda on the socials. They have a great selection of frames. Twitter here, facebook here, and instagram here.

And now, a word from our sponsors. No, House of Penda are not our sponsors. I just like their glasses and mentioned them so that you know where to get some if you also like. Here is our sponsors:


Nasser Road, the duodenum of Kampala

I had business on Nasser Road juzi, which is such a dubious thing to say. It sounds like I am planning to stand for youth woman MP of a constituency whose latitude and longitude indicate that it is at the bottom of Lake Kyoga and that to show that I qualify for elections I require a certificate saying I hold an MA masters fiscal astrology or something.

I had business on Nasser Road juzi is, furthermore, not something we should be saying in 2019. Why does Nasser Road still exist? Why has it not been condensed into a 13 MB app by  now? Why do I still have to physically lift ass onto boda, don helmet and actually geographically move out of the conditioned air to go to Nasser Road? Juzi or otherwise?

I have not been in the CBD, or Central Business District, or Gotham, for so long that it feels as if I have never even been there. I mastered impeccable avoidance strategies that have kept me out of downtown, Jinja-Kampala-Bombo Road, Luwum, Wilson, Dastur and the whole morass for so long I literally can’t remember the last time I was there. All I have is nightmarish memories, and my mind pictures the place with the most extreme, most bigoted, most virulent, most hateful opposite of fondness

Like this writhing coil of pulsing, sliming species so devolved from human beings, so reduced to essential disgust that you, and me and all of us should not call them humans.

We should call them eugh-mans.

Pause for rimshot. Yeah. That joke has been submitted to the African Museum of Anthropological Research.

Jinja to Bombo Road is one long duodenum and everything on its surface is either proceeding toward defecation or expectoration. I’m sorry to be so gross about this, and I know I could have simply said “I don’t like the place because it is too crowded”, but if I did, what kind of man would I be? African needs Africans who are ready to say what is on their mind with clarity and courage.

I can’t believe I had to go to Nasser road.

Four elements compose Nasser Road. Stone (which makes the buildings and road), paper (which feeds the business as well as the inevitable thousands of rats) people (who, obviously, also feed the rats) and a suspicious smell I can’t describe.

I can’t describe it because I can’t actually smell it, which only makes it more suspicious. But I am certain there is one. The fact that I can’t detect it means it must be hiding itself, which just makes it more nefarious.

Nasser road is famous as a hub for printing businesses: book legers, receipt documents, file folios and the like.

It is famous for  printing, it is notorious for forgery.

I thought the  latter would be the only reason I would ever have to descend to that particular circle of the inferno –I don’t know where this feeling comes from, but I believe a forgery will one day be necessary, at some point in my life. Maybe it will be a fake marriage certificate. Maybe a fake divorce one.

Instead of either, though, it was a routine business matter that took me to Nasser Road. The agent of someone I work with needed me to meet him there to sign a contract.

Which brings us to the lesson for Uganda as a whole. Look, if we will not let the internet streamline and modernise business practices because we keep putting up taxes and laws to restrict its efficiency, at least let us allow the courier departments of the boda boda industry to do it. As if you can’t just send the contract on a bike, I sign it, and neither one of us has to hurt anyone’s feelings.


Behind The Scenes of #NotRadio

Due to circumstances well within my control, such as the steering wheel of my Spacio, I found myself at Blue Flamingo’s studios last Friday afternoon, there to witness with my very own eyes and ears, indeed with both of each organ, the performance and recording of #NotRadio

#NotRadio, as you have learned since you crawled out from underneath that rock (Nga tusanyuse! Eladde! Ab’e Olduvai Gorge mwabalese bali batya?) is Uganda’s first certified hit podcast.

Yes, we have had podcasts before. We still have them. A lot of them are quite good. Mine (now a defunct casualty of my attention dysfunction) was, I dare say, a significant fraction above mediocre in fact. But we have never yet had a certifiable hit, a blockbuster Michael Bay Disney Avengers Sequel featuring Drake and Kanye West plus Stan Lee cameo style hit.

#NotRadio (It’s written like that, with the hashtag. Don’t panic. Just allow) features the line up of Siima Sabiti, Rudende Nkurunziza and Karim Katuramu. Notable personages each.

Siima has the demeanour of one who would have solved a lot of problems if she had been in Seeta at the right time. I am certain that she could have said, “Let’s all calm down and relax, have a cup of tea and talk this through,” and both Seargent Namaganda and the brigadier’s bodyguards would have taken seats. Not least because you sense of a glint of machete metal in her eye, a warning that Siima may well have expert level capacity in applying chokeholds.

Rudende the evil genius is a man of capacious intelligence, conversant on the randomest of topics. It is as if he knows something about everything. In most cases something related to flatulence about everything.


KK is like a ricocheting bullet; his wit is fast, unpredictable, wild and lethal. I once thought of starting social media beef with KK. I knew that losing to him would boost my twitter numbers. But the problem is that he rarely tweets. Which is quite selfish, in my opinion. 

This trio first earned notoriety seven years ago as XAM, the morning show on XFM, 94.8.

Since then water has flowed under the bridge, down the trough, out the cistern and into the wetland. Rudy, Siima and KK do not present shows on radio any more.

But chemistry is chemistry, if you paid attention during Mrs Nsangyi’s class. The combination of certain elements will always explode the same way even if you combine them  years later.


#NotRadio is the reconstitution of these titans without the hindrance of R.Kelly music breaks. It is just the raw uncut, the bare bums, the nyarsh without the knickers, the pedal to the metal. I am positive without a doubt to taint my faith, that this is how God wanted it to be. No R. Kelly breaks.

I arrived just before the trio entered the studio and even though I should not have been surprised by this I nevertheless was shocked to see that each had a pen and paper in front of them. As if they plan and prepare and organise and schedule. As if this madness has a method to it.

Phil Jackson, legendary coach of the championship Michael Jordan and the championship Kobe Bryant once told me, via a documentary of course, that you need a lot of practice to make your art seem effortless. And if it doesn’t seem effortless you have not practiced enough.”


Obviously veterans, with their level of experience and expertise know how to do prep. But it didn’t feel like falling into Mrs Nsangyi’s study group. They kept segueing into conspiracy theories involving testicles and had a few enlightening and encouraging revelations to share with each other about something called the friendzone nut.

Yes, it apparently exists.

Then it was Showtime. And what Coach Phil said was true. Triangle offence. Powerpuff girls, Siima’s erudite exposition of the Michael Coheh deposition, Rudey’s sudden and abrupt … wait. I can’t tell you any more without spoilers. Let me leave the link here and you listen. After you are done, pick your butt up off the floor where it will be lying, having been laughed off.